The Better Angels
by Juniorstarcatcher
Summary: Alma Williams has always heard voices. Mutant abilities repressed and locked away at the age of twelve, she has been told her entire life that she is mad. When young Hank McCoy discovers the young woman, he must choose between helping her save herself and passing the most important Mutant Civil Rights law in history.
1. Chapter 1

_"My demons were shouting down the better angels in my brain."_

* * *

Alma Williams wakes up on this morning in just the same way she wakes every morning, the same way she has woken up everyday for the last nine years. To the sound of a ringing bell and the feeling of slats of light on her face. The bell is from the tower of the Administration building, and she can hear it from her room in Ward Four, as clearly and as resolutely as if it were ringing on her bedside table, even though the Administration Building is on the other side of the campus. The slats of light come in from the sun peeking in through the drawn blinds over her two foot tall by two foot wide window, and the rectangular slaps of light are making her as warm as she's going to be today. The girl in the bed is from a town so small that it isn't even on the map, and she is hearing voices.

That's how the morning begins for patient ALW916. That's how they all begin. With light. With sound. With warmth. And with a massive, throbbing headache that shakes the skull in her head. Groggily, she opens her eyes, letting the sunshine add another palpitation to her headache as she adjusts to the morning light. For a moment, the young woman allows herself a moment of rest, of nothing but the noise and the light and the throbbing headache, as she lays on her metal-framed cot, staring up at the ceiling. The voices are everywhere, the source of her headache. It's nearly unbearable, the storm of sound trapped in her brain, but this is her only chance to hear them.

_Good morning- If he would just get up-Fuck me, man-Bedpans and -_

_ -La, la la laaaa-Oh, wow-Nurse Hilda-Wait-_

_ -I can't-What is she-Stop-Stop-I don't want-I can't-Let me-_

_ -Is it really that-Doctor Carrington-Two, three-_

_ -Letter time-Breakfast-Baconbaconbaconbacon-Pills-_

_ If Carla visits, then I-_

_ -Good fucking day to you, Nurse-_

_ -I don't understand-Mail day-_

_ -One button, two buttons-_

_ -Just put the pill under the tongue-_

_ -Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckshitpiss-Oh, great-_

_ -Am I going to-What-Keys-where are the-_

_ -Fucking girl never gets up on time._

The noise, noise, noise squeezes its way into every available space in her body, filling her up to an unhealthy brim. It is after only a few brief moments of unadulterated pain, of unfiltered sound, that Alma is greeted with a knock on the doorframe of her room. Her illusion of privacy is shattered. The simplest pleasures of the world all disappear from her fingers like flour through a sifter, as a nurse in a crisp, white uniform enters the room without waiting for Alma to grant her permission. The patients here at The Holbrook Hospital are given liberties, and Alma perhaps the most liberties of all given her long-term status, but no one is given a privelege so great as a door. No, the patients in Ward Four at The Holbrook Hospital have no doors, no locks, no privacy. Just four walls with a gaping rectangle in the fabric of one where a barrier to the outside world, a protection from the light and sound of the hallway, should be. Nurse McKerry walks over to Alma's bed, looking at her wide, open eyes.

"You're awake," she says, simply, the same as she does every morning.

Alma nods, though she makes not even the slightest twitch to move or rise from her bed. There are still the sounds. So many sounds. Voices of all different textures and colors and shapes, filling her head, distracting her. Her eyes feel as though they may explode from the weight of them, that her neck might crack under the strain, but all the same, she stares at the ceiling and listens. It is the only time today when she will be allowed to.

"Then, let's get you up and dressed," Nurse McKerry says, her thin lips curving into a smile.

That's the way the nurses are here, Alma notices. They are nothing but swirling smiles and detached, distant eyes. This is the way of the routine; this is the moment in the day when argument of any kind falls silent on the young patient's tongue. This is the way things are, the way things have always been. Doing as she is told, Alma rises to her feet and sways a step once her body is upright, the floor moving under her as the first dizzy spell of the day takes hold of her. McKerry's cold, skeletal arms reach out, her right arm steadying Alma's shoulder and the other sliding to grasp the young girl's elbow. The world tilts on its axis before the young patient's eyes as her stomach rolls at uncomfortable angles. She fights off the wave of nausea as best she can, closing her eyes against the ever-shifting room.

"That's it," the nurse says, her voice gentle and lilting even as it is all commands and imperatives, "On your feet now. That's a good girl."

When the spell finally passes, the hands leave Alma's body as McKerry passes the young girl her uniform. The grey fabric is worn into softness, and it glides onto the young woman's skin like butter. This is the dress she's worn for three years, every single day, and its familiarity makes the girl smile. It's a gentle smile, the smile of coming home. When she's finally dressed, she stands at near attention at the side of her bed, waiting for further instruction, knowing what comes next in the morning routine, but not daring to continue without first being given permission.

"Say your prayers," the nurse says as she edges gracefully around the patient to make the bed, her motions as calm and controlled as the white pleats in her perfectly crisp skirt.

They aren't prayers. Not exactly. No. But in a place like Holbrook, with no God to hear you but the Hospital Director, and no Saints to answer but the nurses, this is as close to prayers as Alma has ever come. She says them everyday before going to breakfast, and every night before turning down her sheets, always in front of a nurse, always so someone else can hear her. Folding her arms in front of her like Adam covering his loins in the garden, she bows her head and says the vows that come easily as breathing now, smiling as she goes, content with the life she has been living for nine years now. Nurse McKerry begins to make the bed.

"I, Alma Williams, am a patient in The Holbrook Hospital," she starts, reading the lines etched upon the stone of her heart.

Nurse McKerry begins to hum a tune that is most certainly on the radio recently; Alma can swear that she's heard it somewhere. Maybe the voices have been singing them in her dreams.

"I am sick," she continues.

Not for the first time, Alma remembers the evening she was taught these prayers. In the first hour in the hospital, all that time ago. Another person ago, it sometimes feels. What a foolish little girl she was back then.

* * *

_Her parents put her on a train in Kansas and told her to get off in Rensselaer, a place she couldn't pronounce, much less spell or try and point to on a map. When she got there, they said, everything would be fine. Oh, she screamed and cried the entire lonely train ride, banged against the glass, but her parents turned away on the platform without looking back. This was for the best, they assured her. And when she arrived at the train station that was identified to her by a bewildered baggage handler on the slick black train car in which she was riding, eyes red and body aching and mind consumed by the voices that she hadn't the strength to attempt to tune out, a man in a dark blue trench coat smiled at her, taking his hat off in deference. He was going to take her somewhere safe, he promised. Somewhere where her mind could be quiet for once. _

_And that's how she ended up in a massive, empty warehouse on the campus of The Holbrook Hospital. They call it "processing." Naked as the day she was born and dripping wet from the firehose they doused her with, her skin pink and raw from the force of the water. She'd first been drenched in de-lousing fluid, then showered with water as though were a burning building. She should have felt the sprays from the hose, but all she felt was shame. Sobbing, now, she folds her arms over her chest and bends her body inward, trying to cover herself from the male orderly holding the hose and the man in the blue trenchcoat smoking a cigarette, staring at her with unabashed eyes. They stuck a needle into her arm in the long, black car that drove her here. And, for the first time in years, the voices are little more than a breath in the back of her mind, so quiet they are almost non-existent. This is the most quiet she can remember a room ever being. She hears nothing but the dripping of water from the hose, from the tips of her hair, and the edges of her paper-thin skin. Then, the man in the blue trenchcoat, sitting with one leg draped across the other in a leather chair that starkly contrasts the grey concrete cube they're currently situated in, blows out a buff of nicotine-laced air, and levels his gaze at the little girl before him. His youngest patient now, his youngest patient ever._

_And the first mutant he's ever encountered. A mind reader at twelve. Of course, she doesn't know that. She thinks she's mad, she thinks she's been sent away because the outside world couldn't bear to carry her, and perhaps that last thought is correct. But she is not mad. She is spectacular. She is dangerous. And she, at the instruction of her parents, is going to be kept safely inside the walls of this psychiatric hospital until her mind is a steel fortress that not even the strongest of voices could penetrate. But, who, really, knows how long that could be? It is a thought that fills the Doctor with sickening glee. A mutant in his charge. How extraordinary. Think of the possibilities._

_"__Girl?" He asks, putting the cigarette back to his lips, letting the smoke curl in dangerous pirouettes. _

_The girl, made now of sopping skin and chattering teeth, nods once in acknowledgment. _

_"__Do you believe in God?"_

_Again, she shakes her head. Her family believes in no God, and so her family never taught her to do so either. The uniformed orderly with the hose in his hands lets his grip tighten on the propulsion lever, though he does not pull it down. Frowning slightly in disappointment at the news, the man in the blue trench coat sighs. It is always better when they believe in God. Easier to scare, easier to console. But still, she is young. He can teach her to be beholden to a God of some kind, even if he himself has to take on that role. _

_"__All the same, now that you are here, you are going to learn your prayers. Say them twice a day, every day, until you are released from this facility," he says with all the sticky courtesy of a teacher explaining the rules of a fourth grade classroom. _

_Release. The little girl's eyes widen and she feels hope fill her chest like helium in a balloon. Her parents explained that she is sick. And that sick children have to get better in places like this. The man's assertion that she can get better is the closest to happiness she has gotten since leaving her parents on that train platform. She could go home one day. She could get better one day. This man has said so himself. _

_"__When will that be?" She asks. _

_The orderly goes to release more water from the hose in punishment for the girl's audacity to speak, but a flick of the suited man's wrist stops him before he can do so. Another drag from the cigarette, another cloud of poisoned air released. _

_"__When you are cured," is all he says. _

_She knows better than to ask when that will be. Brass on the edge of the firehose smirks deviously at her, glinting in the dim warehouse light, and it silences any question that may be dancing on the tip of her tongue. The man in the blue trench coat rises to his feet from the chair he's been leisurely planted in and begins to walk the room as though it were his garden on a warm Sunday afternoon. _

_"__Now. To your prayers. Repeat after me."_

_Alma hugs her body tighter, her bones rattling from the combination of cold air on cold, wet skin. _

_"__I, Alma Williams, am a patient in The Holbrook Hospital."_

_She does as she is told, repeating even as she stammers from a jaw that feels out of her control. _

_"__I am sick." _

_This causes no alarm. The young girl knows that. Her parents have told her so. That is the reason she is here. That is the reason she allowed them to put her in a train car for a distant land she knows nothing of. Sick children have to be sent away. Sick children have to be made better. That's what they told her. That's why she's here. _

_"__I am sick," she says, her voice flickering like a loose bulb. _

_Her breathing hitches as she hiccups, and a sob builds in her throat. The man in the blue trench coat keeps his gait casual, his tone light and airy._

_"__I have a disease. I am a mistake," he intones. _

_The sob in her throat bubbles over and takes over her whole body. Her lips move to say the words, to do as she is told, but her throat itches uncomfortably and her crying rocks the entire warehouse. She cannot speak for her tears. The man and the orderly make eye contact, and the man nods his head once. Without hesitation, a jet of water cuts through Alma like the edge of a million knives, pummeling her already tender skin. She screams out, unable to hold her tongue. _

_"__I have a disease. I am a mistake," she screams over the water as it mercilessly abuses her body. _

_The propulsion handle is released and the water stops. Breathing hard, struggling to hold onto herself, Alma bites her lips. Her knees give out beneath her, and she collapses painfully to the concrete floor._

_"__But mistakes can be corrected," the man says. _

_Alma hesitates for the briefest of seconds, but sees the orderly reach for the hose once more. Holding her hands out, no longer caring for modesty, she bows her head and begs in a voice shattered like a crystal vase._

_"__But mistakes can be corrected," she repeats. _

_So the little mind reader can learn, the man in the blue trench coat thinks to himself as he turns his full attention back to the little girl. _

_"__My name is Alma Williams," he says once more, like a teacher gentle guiding a student to the right answer. _

_"__My name is Alma Williams," she parrots back without delay. _

_"__And I am a mistake that can be fixed."_

_"__And I am a mistake that can be fixed."_

_"__Amen."_

_"__Amen."_

_No sooner does she finish the thought than the man in the blue coat hands her a warm, lush towel and a new, grey dress. He bends down to her place on the floor, allowing his eyes to level with hers as he smiles something that might have been paternal in another life. He is Doctor Joseph Carrington, the Director of the Hospital, and he's just found his newest pet. _

_"__Welcome to the family, Miss Alma Williams."_

* * *

It is almost funny to her now, all this time later, to think of the little girl she was in that other lifetime. Crying and simpering as she tried to fight reality. As a girl, she didn't want to believe she was sick, though she knew that she was. Perfectly sane people, after all, do not hear voices in their heads. When she was a little girl, she wanted to fight. But now she knows that she was only swinging a sword at scarecrows. There is no battle to win, no fight to take on. Everyone here is on her side. Everyone here is trying to make her better. That's what she's learned in her nine years in this facility. After so long, after so many years in this building, she knows what she is. And there is a particular power, Alma has found, in knowing oneself, in understanding the reality of one's life. She is sick now. She has always been sick. But she is fed, clothed, looked after, and medicated as they search for the cure to her illness, as they try to silence the voices forever. Nurse McKelly continues to hum as she fluffs the pillows and tugs the sheets, and Alma breathes in the smell of chemical cleaner from last night's wash down of the floors and smiles peacefully as she says her prayers.

"I, Alma Williams, am a patient in The Holbrook Hospital. I am sick. I have a disease. I am a mistake. But mistakes can be corrected. My name is Alma Williams and I am a mistake that can be fixed. Amen."

_I can be fixed_. It is the one glint of gold in Alma's otherwise grey life. She has known, said so herself- twice a day, every day-that she is only sick, and sick people get better. There's still hope for her to go home. There's still a chance she could get better. Doctor Carrington says that psychiatric medicine is a slow-moving science, and she believes him. She believes him because after nine years of daily treatment, she isn't any better than the day she was taught her prayers. But she speaks her hope every morning and every night. I can be fixed. I can be fixed. And with that though, she smiles and faces the day. Every morning is a new chance to be cured.

With the bed made and the young woman dressed and watered with prayers, McKerry beckons the young girl toward the door.

"Come along, my dear. Let's get you to breakfast."

The noise in her head is deafening, and Alma accepts the familiar words of the nurse with a comforted sigh. Breakfast means an injection of medication. And an injection means silence. Blessed, merciful silence.

* * *

**Alright! Here is the first chapter! Please review! I hope you enjoyed it!**

**I put the idea for this story and one featuring Alex Summers on tumblr and asked people to vote, and this one won! However, I am considering doing a trilogy set in this hospital, featuring mutant characters. The first one is (obviously) this story, the next story will feature Alex Summers, and the third is yet to be determined! To find out more info, go to juniorstarcatcherfiction on tumblr and read my whole spiel! If you have any ideas for the third story, any requests for characters or situations, let me know!**

**Anywho, let me know what you thought of this first chapter in a review! We'll meet up with Hank in the next chapter! **


	2. Chapter 2

Hank McCoy is a one-man mission statement, a walking, talking political action committee. And, after the events of Cuba, after heightening mutant tensions that have been quieted in the wake of the bigger story of The Civil Rights Movement, that mission statement reflects one ideal and one ideal alone. Mutant safety. That, according to the few members of Congress who have actually agree to meet the young scientist in the thick-framed glasses, essentially means Mutant Rights, but Mutant safety just has such a better ring to it. Rather than _the mutant community has the fundamental right to basic protections under the Constitution, _which is what Hank is _truly _fighting for, the mutant safety lobby phrases that as _mutants should be safe to, for example, be free and open about their mutant status without fear of retribution_. The language of the latter is more palatable to stone-faced, grey-skinned men in dark suits and thin ties wandering the halls of the Capitol Buildings and calling that "civil service," and so phrase his argument that way, he does. Six months after Cuba, the media has taken to manipulating and rephrasing the facts of stories concerning the Cause and mutants as freak accidents or as acts of God, but the men of Congress know better. They've been briefed to know better. And the few who have agreed to hear Hank out know that the road they tread is fraught with uncertainty, so they hold him close to their chests, coddling him to keep his awkward, mutant mouth shut.

And that is how he ends up on a Good Will tour of Hospitals along the Eastern Seaboard with three Democrats from various districts scattered across the Northeast. The President, amidst the rallies and calls for social equality concerning minorities, announced in his most recent State of the Union that he wanted a serious consideration of socialized medicine and health care reform in this country, and almost instantly these three men resolved to spearhead the efforts to create such a bill that would help to that end. In their efforts to better understand the "broken system" described by the President, the Senators scooped up the young lobbyist from his office and handed him an itinerary, which would culminate on this day with an investigation of the Mental Healthcare sector, focusing on the eminent Holbrook Hospital in upstate New York. For some reason they felt that the scientist would be handy to have on such an excursion, and so far, they have been right. Medical jargon was never exactly Hank's strong suit, but next to three Congressmen, he was practically an expert.

After two weeks of traveling up and down the East Coast, staying at hotels far too luxurious and accommodating for his tastes, and sitting in the room alone while the lawmakers used taxpayer money to visit with ladies who charge by the hour, there is nothing Hank is looking more forward to than heading back to his house, to Xavier Estate, and collapsing into his bed before sleeping for weeks. But first, this.

They pull up to The Holbrook Hospital at eight in the morning, the three men in the unmarked car with him still bleary-eyed and hungover from the night before, to find a welcoming committee staged out in front of the building. It's a sight to behold, Hank thinks to himself as he exits the car, his gaze traveling around him with precision. The briefing given to him about this place was substantial, well put-together, but nothing could have prepared him for this. From the readings and lectures he'd taken on the Asylum system, Hank had convinced himself that this would be a run-down shell of a building where patients stared with dead eyes at the blank wall in front of them as they swayed back and forth in their rocking chairs. But the sight that greets him is not like that at all. The campus of the hospital must span acres, he estimates. Lush grasses, a reflecting pool, a storage facility or warehouse of some kind stretch out toward the edges of his vision. The main house, the administration building as it is proclaimed by the gold lettered sign, is opulent as any he's ever seen. Sprawling and grand, vines crawl their way up the walls and plant themselves there as if they were trying to remain on-sight forever. The sun shines against the glass windows, barred of course, but that can't be helped with a place filled with the mentally incapacitated, giving the entire place an other-worldly haze. On the front steps, like the family Von Trapp, is an assemblage of orderlies and nurses, their white uniforms blinding in the morning glow; the centerpiece of the collection of medical professionals is, of course, a man in a dark blue suit with an impossible thin silk tie, his shoes polished until they look as though they just came out of the store. This is the Doctor. This is Doctor Carrington.

With the men out of their car and heading for the building, Carrington breaks rank with his finely choreographed snapshot of staff members, stepping forward with solid, confident strides as he reaches out his hand for a diplomatic handshake. His smile is intoxicating.

"Gentlemen," he begins, his slicked hair unmoving even as the wind begins to gently dance against the nurses' white skirts, "Welcome to Holbrook."

Nothing about the finely attired and accredited doctor immediately sets off Hank's instincts. There is no flash of a red flag or sound of alarm bells in the hallways of his mind. On the contrary, Hank finds himself returning the charismatic smile and firm handshake sent his way.

"Strong grip you've got there," the doctor comments.

With a nod and a shrug that marks off a private joke inside of him, Hank chuckles, "I'm stronger than the average bear."

Laughter is shared and self-congratulatory introductions are made all around. It only takes a nod of his head for Carrington to send his staff scrambling back into the building and to their posts, but the moment they're gone, his hand brushes the air in a grand gesture toward the administration building.

"Shall we begin the tour, gentlemen?" He asks.

Hank opens his notebook and uncaps his pen, poised to take notes. This isn't any sort of indictment or investigation of this facility. On the contrary, even after a few all together shady incidents in the past of this institution, Holbrook is still considered to be the gold standard in mental health. Hank's notes are not meant to be taken as offenses or strikes against them, but rather they are meant to aid in the creation of this bill. If they can manage to create legislation that holds hospitals to the gold standard of Holbrook, then perhaps something could be done about mental health in this country. On paper, this is the most ideal place for any patient to be, and thus it is the place where they conclude their quest to fix the broken system. Shoulders back and air graceful and proud, Carrington leads the party through the halls. The grand foyer features a glittering chandelier and a dual staircase that, apparently, leads to the staff bedrooms. The front office is tidy and immaculately kept, clean and functional. The pretty nurses smile at the men who are paraded by the grand marshal that Carrington has made of himself, and Hank swears that he catches Senator Jackson wink at the blonde one with red lipstick. His stomach turns at the sight, but rights itself when they are led through a set of heavy double doors, which, according to their host, lead to the back of the house, the main wing of the hospital.

"Our Hospital is divided into six areas, generally speaking. Two commons areas- one inside, which includes dining facilities, therapy centers, a recreation room, et cetera, and one outside, our courtyard- and four living wards. All of the patients are outfitted with their own private room in wards one through four. Ward one is where we house the most manageable patients and so forth and so on through the numbers up to four, which is where we house our most difficult and long-suffering patients. Please keep up, gentlemen."

Quickly jumping to meet up with his quick, calculated pace, the men from Washington struggle to keep up, though Hank continues to hang back a few careful steps. His pen jots down a few quick notes, observations. There are no clocks in this building, at least none that he can see, which feels curious to him, curious enough, at least, to make a note of it.

"Holbrook continues to create new levels of excellence in psychiatric medicine, gentlemen. Gone are the days of sheet tightening therapies and electroshock treatments. Gone are the days of sterilizations and lobotomies. We here daily strive to seek the best level of treatment for each individual patient, carefully crafting a treatment to reach their specific needs. As no two brains are alike, you can imagine that this is rather difficult-"

Hank attempts to hold his tongue, but finds himself unable to do so. Senator Brown's secretary told him not to mention it, made it expressly clear that he should not bring up the reports that he uncovered concerning Holbrook's former history of lobotomization, but since Carrington brought it up himself, Hank finds himself asking the question anyway.

"What about reports that Holbrook used lobotomization therapy until the late 50's?" He asks.

The entire parade of men halts in their tracks, each man in turn rotating his gaze to the young man at the back of their order. Looking ready to draw blood, the senators each, in their own way, wonder why they believed bringing on a doctor would do them any good on this trip before blaming the poor decision on the other two law makers on this trip. Carrington, for his part, merely chuckles, though his eyes tighten ever so slightly.

"I can assure you that under my watch, no such thing has ever occurred. Yes, admittedly, such surgeries were performed here, in the 50's under Doctor Devlin, but psychiatric medicine and the study of such must be handled delicately and the process is slow-moving. At the time the surgeries were performed, the doctors and nurses were acting upon the best science available to them. They were acting in the best interest of the patient, as we continue to do today," he says, his look pointed, yet somehow even still polite.

It is definitive and with nothing left to say, the doctor returns to leading his brigade down the hall.

"And just this way, you'll find our dining hall. According to the itinerary sent over to me a few days ago, I have anticipated that you would share breakfast with us. Am I correct? Our chef and cooking staff are actually quite good."

They turn down a hallway, where Hank witnesses a train of grey clothes which seem to wear the bodies inside them rather than the other way around standing in a single-file line, looked down upon by the orderlies and nurses who wait against the opposite walls like statues of the saints in the cathedral he visited weekly as a child. Shuffling into line behind them, the Doctor's charges earn the stares and attention of every single patient waiting ahead. Hank finds himself entranced by the pairs of eyes that find their way to his, the glassy, medicated expression that many bear chill him in a place so lost and foreign inside his heart that he isn't sure he could ever get it warm again.

"What do you think, Hank?" Senator Brown asks him, attempting to pull Hank into a conversation that he was clearly not privy to.

Completely oblivious to whatever it is that he is supposed to be answering, Hank merely nods blankly, giving little more than a noncommittal hum. This seems to satisfy them, however, leaving Hank to his own thoughts as he is closed out of the conversation with little effort by the other men. He wonders how many of the injections Charles used in his absence and he wonders if he will be asked to return to D.C. when this trip is over of if he will be released for Congress' recess and he wonders if any of his notes will do them any good when it comes time to write this damn bill and if trading his favors on this trip has given him enough credit to begin a serious debate or conversation about _mutant safety_ legislation, and then his stomach rumbles and he wonders what they are serving for breakfast here-

"Eggs and bacon."

Hank's entire body stiffens at the sound of a small, remote voice speaking those three simple words behind him. Eggs and bacon. _What are they serving for breakfast? _Eggs and bacon. He turns around, not even attempting to hide his surprise. In the slip of a breath that is the time he's allowed to process what he _thinks_ just happened, he tries to explain it away. Perhaps he's just imagining things. Perhaps she didn't speak at all. Perhaps eggs and bacon is her verbal tick. Perhaps he's projecting things. Perhaps he actually, accidentally, said that question out loud and who ever responded was simply being polite.

Perhaps. But something inside him, a lost sense, whispers that it isn't any of those things.

When that slip of a breath is over and he makes his way a full one hundred eighty degrees, he stops short. What he sees is almost as shocking as what he thinks just happened to him. The body belonging to the small voice that informed him of the morning's menu is not a bit what he expected. He identifies her as a patient from the grey dress that covers her frame, but if she were wearing anything else, he might never tell. Eyes bright and clear. Lips tilted like the first pile of fall leaves. She carries a weight in her body, like she has something to hide, a secret shame to sweep away by collapsing her ribs ever so slightly in on themselves and bowing her head slightly downward, but that is nothing that perfectly sane people cannot have. Had Hank not seen her here, he might never have thought her a patient at all. Which is what leaves him so thoroughly confused. Which leaves him with nothing but questions.

"I'm sorry?" He asks, furrowing his brow, asking her to repeat the question.

The young woman goes to do so, but is interrupted by a wildly shuffling nurse, scrambling from her place on the opposite wall with a heavy, embarrassed manner as she places two hands on the young woman's shoulders in an effort to silence her. Eyes open and repentant, the nurse huffs as she rushes to come between Hank and the young woman he's currently sharing gazes with.

"My apologies, sir," she says, "I'm so sorry she's bothering you. She hasn't had her medication yet this morning."

But, no. Hank as isn't upset as this frail-boned nurse seems to think he is. His counterparts might have been startled, frightened, offended even, at the young woman's interruption into his morning, but Hank holds no such wrath. Instead, he holds unbridled curiosity. He knows he didn't say that question out loud. He _knows _that she answered a question asked exclusively in his own head. And though he stumbles through saying words and pretending the part of an actual person, on the inside he is nothing more than a puzzle of uncertainty.

"She isn't bothering me at all, Nurse..." His bespectacled eyes wander down to her name tag before fishing for the information he seeks, calling her by her last name, "Wallace?"

The intended and simple flattery of that simple act earns Hank what he wants so desperately: a little breathing room with the odd creature in the grey dress. Nurse Wallace nods to the young politician once, casting an almost invisible blush on her cheek as she returns to her place on the wall, taking the opportunity to gossip whichever of her colleagues is willing to listen. With that inconvenience aside, Hank focuses his attention fully on the task at hand.

"Now, what did you say?" He repeats, an urgency coloring his tone.

It is an odd sort of attention she pays him as he speaks and as she offers her reply. Halfway between present and distant, she seems to study him at arm's length, all the while gathering up details in the stores of her mind. And while he expects her to answer with a vacant look and a quiet voice, he finds that she carries a hushed confidence, knowing what she heard and knowing that her reply was called for when he asked.

"Breakfast," she begins with an almost musical clearing of her throat, tapping her temple with two fingers in a _think, think_ motion, "Someone asked what we're having for breakfast. Eggs and bacon. We always have eggs and bacon on Friday mornings."

Hank's throat dries out and he blinks a few times, rapidly, in an attempt to bring the world back into focus. He didn't say that out loud. He knows he didn't say it out loud. And, with his knowledge of mind readers, it cannot be out of the question that she might be...Could she be like Charles? Could she have picked that question straight from his mind?

"Oh. Thank you. Thank you very much," he goes to turn back around to his colleagues, but stops himself short. If this girl is one of them, if she has a gift, he can't go back to his life without investigating, "What is your name, again?"

She smiles. As if this is a question she's been studying every day to answer.

"Alma. Alma Williams," she says, though something in the back of Hank's mind reads her tone as rehearsed, animatronic, almost.

His hand twitches to extend to her, but an orderly rushes over, having heard Nurse Wallace's little story.

"I'm sorry, sir," he says, his voice full of empty authority, "she really does need to take her medicine now."

Alma, as Hank now knows her, looks up to the man in the white uniform with something akin to disappointment, but allows herself to be carted off into the next room all the same, nodding to Hank once as she goes, that simple, tender smile glittering all the way.

"Oh, of course," Hank mutters to himself, shoving his hands in his suit pockets before blowing a huge burst of air from his lips.

He looks around for a moment, watching Alma's figure as it is guided into the dining hall, before letting his eyes settle on Nurse Wallace.

"Uh-Nurse?" He asks.

She lights up like fireworks and she shuffles over to him immediately.

"Yes, sir," she replies.

There was so much more tact to be had in pursuing his questions, his curiosities about Alma, but he doesn't access his careful consideration for other people now. Instead, he just points to the woman in the grey dress with an antique name as she offers her arm to the orderly.

"What, exactly, is she in here for?" He asks.

This could be the key to it. This could crack his suspicions, one way or the other. His stomach sours when he watches the orderly slide a needle into Alma's vein, pumping her with medications from a clear plastic bag. When he hears Nurse Wallace's reply, the heart in his chest almost stops beating.

"She hears voices. Has done for as long as she can remember."

And there it is, in so many words. Hank's suspicion confirmed.

He just met another telepath.

* * *

**Please review! I am always so happy to hear from you all! Please tell me what you think!**


	3. Chapter 3

For the next twenty minutes or so, he stands in line for breakfast with a bewildered, other worldly look in his dark eyes, wallowing in the feelings that are battling within him for dominance, trying to piece together the thing he has just discovered. Within the walls of this hospital, there is a woman who is a mutant. A telepath, of all things. And they're…They've misdiagnosed her, trying to cure her of something that is a part of her innate design. It's enough to make Hank's head spin, just as it's enough to wonder at the answers to the terrible questions swirling around his mind like sugar in a cup of coffee.

As he retrieves his plate of almost edible looking eggs and bacon from the cafeteria worker at the front of the line, Hank pushes his glasses and feels a rush of intuitive hesitancy in his mind. Something inside him knows that once he goes down this road, there will be no returning from it, no turning around and forgetting the whole thing ever happened. If he finds the answers to his questions, he knows that there will only be more waiting for him after that, and again after those are answered. But, by the time his hand removes itself from the bridge of his nose and returns to the tray he's carrying, he knows that the hesitancy is not enough to stop him completely. His compatriots from DC have already dispersed themselves around the room, settling themselves beside various patients and wedging themselves near orderlies, just in case. Just in case what, Hank isn't quite sure, but he knows that their starched collars get a little wrinkled when they actually have to get near any of the ill people they swear that their bill is trying to protect. But, that's Washington for you, Hank guesses.

His eyes scan the dining hall, searching until he finds her. Across the room, in the furthest corner, tucked away at a table all by herself. It is then that Hank drafts a plan, a plan for ensuring that what he thinks, what he's almost certain of, is true. After living with Charles for so long, the other man has taught him that certain people can think loudly, a trait which drives Charles mad when Hank has the audacity to do it. It's no different than talking loudly, really. It's just a mode of mental projection that some people do naturally and that others can make themselves do. And, as Hank steps closer and closer to her, he attempts to force a reaction out of her.

_**Alma Williams.**_

No reaction from her. Hank continues his walk and thinks louder, focusing everything within him on those two words.

_**Alma Williams.**_

And then, Hank gets what he wants. A twitch. Her eyes shudder inward and her jaw visibly tightens as his voice rises above all of the others that are inevitably clouding her mind. Just as Hank walks right upon her, he tries once more.

_**Alma Williams.**_

This time, the reaction is even more physical, a near convulsion in her body as she jerks against the sudden racket in her brain. The sudden introduction of this new voice calling out her name does nothing for her headache, but only serves to drive her into even more pain than she was in before. When the voice stops repeating itself, Alma visibly slackens, leaning her forehead against her palm, resting there for a moment with her eyes closed as she internally begs for the medicine to start doing its work. Her foot taps against the hardwood floor below her and a shaking hand reaches for her fork with a sigh, knowing that everything works in its own good time. There's no rushing these things. Doctor Carrington tells her that all the time. Patience will win the day in the battle for her sanity, he's always saying.

And so lost in her own mind, the sound of another voice, a real voice, this time, speaking to her is almost as jarring to her system as the ones in her head.

"Hey," a voice says.

Alma looks up, her eyes wide and wondering what it is that she's done wrong. Once she's gotten her medicine, the orderlies generally let her go. They usually leave her alone. But, to her shock, when she looks up, she's greeted with those eyes that only a moment ago questioned her and consoled her all at once. The politician has arrived at her table. To what end and for what reason, Alma has no idea, but all the same, she remembers her manners.

"Hello," she greets.

Hank raises his eyebrows and points to the chair across from her, hovering over it in a show of letting her know that he won't take it if she really doesn't want him there. With his mental game a success, having determined that she is, in fact, a telepath, for certain, Hank wouldn't want her to turn him away, wouldn't want her to tell him to get lost, but he knows that if she doesn't want him around, he couldn't force his way in.

"Mind if I sit down?" He asks.

Odd feelings stir in Alma's chest, making her skin itch with something akin to anticipation. She squirms a little bit in her chair, wondering if this is what women in the movies feel like when James Cagney takes the seat next to them at the bar. It's a foolish and girlish thing to think, but it's the first time someone without a white lab coat has genuinely asked to sit with her, and the interest in this man's eyes call something red and flush and unfamiliar into her white cheeks.

"No. Of course not," she rushes to say, perhaps too eager for her own good.

With a grateful nod, the man sits down across from her, smiling as he introduces himself, remembering suddenly that he didn't exchange that particular pleasantry during their initial conversation.

"I'm Doctor Hank McCoy."

And, just like that, all of the foolish, girlish optimism disappears, running scared so fast that later Alma will wonder how she ever managed to hold onto it in the first place. The color evaporates from her face and she returns to her breakfast, the light in her eyes dimming.

"Oh," escapes her lips and she scoops a forkful of eggs into her mouth, hoping that it will keep her from saying anything more ridiculous.

Her reaction catches Hank off guard. Taking her in, letting his eyes cross her this way and that, he absorbs what looks like dismay. Around them, patients and doctors and nurses and orderlies go about their morning ritual, completely unaware of the universe that Hank is trying to uncover inside this woman.

"You sound disappointed," he states, doing his best not to sound offended by the accusation behind her dismissal of him.

Almost instantly, she looks up from her plate, repentance on every inch of her evident. She gulps and Hank catches her looking to either side of her furtively, as if she expects someone to come and take her away for the most minor slight of having her own emotions. Taking a deep gulp back, Alma attempts to wipe away the offense she thinks she's made against the man in the suit sitting across from her.

"I didn't mean to offend you," she bows her head a little bit, the words having come out too fast. Taking a deep breath in, she continues, "Sorry. I just...You're another doctor."

Understanding finally reaches Hank as the words of that last sentence sink in. You're another doctor. She thinks that he has come here, tried to cozy up to her at breakfast, because he wants to study her. Oh. Hank feels the weight of conviction hang around his shoulders as he turns that thought over and over in his mind. Because she isn't exactly wrong about that. Yes, he did come over here to tray and study her. Perhaps not in a lab or on an operating table or however they study her here, but he wanted to see inside her mind, wanted to understand how a telepath could have allowed herself to come to be incarcerated like this. Gulping down a stone of guilt, Hank looks down at his plate and wonders if the ill feeling in his stomach will allow for him to actually eat the food served to him.

"Not like the kind you're thinking of," he mumbles, unsure of how to proceed now that he can't seem to reconcile what he's done with what he wanted to do.

This piques Alma's interest. What kind of doctor would want to visit a psychiatric hospital unless it was part of his profession? Alma's lived her for longer than anyone would care to admit and even she knows that it isn't exactly a place where people want to spend their free time.

"You're not?" She questions.

Hank shakes his head, pursing his lips as he does so.

"No. I'm not a psychiatrist," he clarifies.

Alma's always been good at reading people. After living in a place where no one tells her anything, she's had to resort to learning to read social cues, the looks on people's faces, and the pauses left between their words in order to get any information that she wants. And, as she looks at Hank, she struggles to understand the messages that he's sending her. There's confusion, frustration, but, inspire of that, an effort to keep up good appearances. It's a mess of contradictions that Alma pins on herself, scooping up the blame and heaping it upon her shoulders.

"I didn't mean to-" She begins.

But Hank holds up one hand and manages a smile, trying to casually brush away her concern. She doesn't need to feel the guilt that he's feeling.

"You didn't offend me," he promises.

She thinks she believes him, which is good enough for her. With a single nod of her head, she says:

"Good."

Pushing past the emotions rising up within him, Hank attempts to give her some measure of comfort, to distance himself from the walls that she's currently confined in. Perhaps they're things she doesn't need to know, but he says them anyway.

"I'm actually a scientist. But lately, I've been playing politician," he confesses.

Alma doesn't know much about politics, but she does know what she's read in her Plato and her Adams and her Thoreau, which she trusts has to be enough for some sort of intelligent conversation.

"What for?" She asks, picking up the bacon from her plate and breaking it into perfectly similar pieces before putting one of them into her mouth.

Hank debates internally for a moment, wondering whether or not she should know the true purpose of his time in politics. Mutant legislation is the reason, but… Something within him tells him that now isn't the time for a conversation like that. Maybe she isn't ready for it. Or, perhaps more to the point, maybe he isn't ready for it. So, he dodges dangerously close to the truth without getting close enough to let it burn either of them.

"Better health care," he settles on saying.

Alma bobs her head and goes in for the next piece of precisely divided up bacon. Health care. It's odd because in some ways, she feels like she's both the worst and best authority on such a subject. On the one hand, she knows nothing about the health care system on the entire American scale, but on the other hand, she's been submerged in the middle of it for as long as she can remember. It's like asking a goldfish what water is like. It's been living in water their whole life, but because of that, perhaps they don't understand what it is, exactly, that water means. It's all at once too tangible and intangible at the same time.

"That's nice," she begins before turning the whole force of her eyes on him, "You're here studying mental healthcare, then."

Hank chuckles and goes back to the eggs on his plates, glad that the light in her eyes has returned. For some reason, it feels reassuring to him. It makes him lighter by the moment.

"That's what they tell me," he says.

Then, she says something that comes from left field as far as Hank is concerned. It's something good about the facility that she's locked away in.

"Holbrook's the best place for it," she commends.

Everyone within and outside of these walls knows about the recognition and awards that Holbrook has gotten for its service to the mentally ill community. Alma has been here and struggled and battled against her own mind and the doctors were there with her every step of the way. And it hasn't been easy, but the hospital has been there for her.

"You think so?" Hank asks, genuinely interested in her answer.

It is his question that brings her confusion this time. Why wouldn't she think so? Does Hank have his doubts, she wonders.

"Yes. I do," she confirms.

Their eyes meet and for a moment, the pages of their books are open to one another, available in plain english for each other to read. Hank sees an honesty in her that startles him. Alma sees a hesitancy in him that startles her. Clearing his throat to break the moment, Hank looks down for a moment, breaking the contact.

"And what are you in here for?" He asks, already knowing the question but wondering if, perhaps, she might give him the truth instead of the almost-lie that the nurse fed him.

For Alma, the truth is easy, repeated as argument to her everyday during her hours and hours of a variety of therapies and treatments, during her prayers and recitations. It slips from her tongue with an ease that hits her tongue like ice cold lemonade without enough sugar in it.

"I hear voices. I have all my life. But the medicine and the therapy help. I can barely hear them now," she says, with a shrug and a gentle, lilting voice of a housewife calling her husband into the dining room for supper, "They keep me in Ward Four."

Ward Four is for the craziest of them all. Hank learned that on his tour. Ward Four is for the long-term, long-suffering patients that will most assuredly never walk out of this place free again. But he glimpses sanity in her eyes. Ward Four isn't the place for her.

"Really?" He asks, his forehead creasing as he watches her meticulously cut her eggs into perfect, ordered bites, "How long have you been here?"

"My parents brought me here when I was twelve."

Bile halts halfway up Hank's throat and he chokes on the water that he was drinking. This young woman in the grey pajamas cannot be more than two years younger than Hank is. Since she was twelve… That's her life. That's her whole life. Noticing his distress, Alma rushes to explain herself better.

"But it isn't a bad place to grow up. I had tutors until I turned eighteen and have always had books and films and records to keep me occupied. And I'm getting better every day, they tell me," she defends.

Hank furrows his brow, trying not to let rage and frustration seep in through his body. Her whole life. They've stolen this woman's life, practically.

"Who tells you that?" He asks, keeping a tight leash on the biting edge that threatens his tone.

She moves on from her bacon and onto the eggs on her plate, her tone rolling and light, no trace of harshness or anger in her voice.

"Doctor Carrington. He's brilliant."

Then, Hank makes a rash decision. Focusing his energy, he puts all of this thoughts in one direction, nearly shouting them in him head. **_You are a mutant, Alma_. **

But, this time, he receives no twitch, no shudder that she's heard his thoughts wail in her direction. He tries again. And again. And again. And still, nothing. It's as if she doesn't hear him at all. Finally, Hank leans into the table, forcing himself a little closer to her.

"You don't have to hide from me," he implores.

Thinking that this conversation has taken an odd turn, Alma creases her forehead and takes a long sip of water, saying a quiet prayer of thanks that the medicine seems to have taken to her system as the voices in her head have dulled to a quiet hum in the back of her mind. The headache behind her eyes is slowly absorbing itself into nothingness, giving her full permission to ask the question:

"What are you talking about?"

Hank lowers his voice and looks around, knowing that there isn't anyone around to hear them. They are alone at the this table. No one can hear them or interrupt them and if Alma has been pretending to have a mental illness to cover up her mutation, then she _has _to want to come clean to someone. At least, that's what Hank assumes.

"C'mon. You don't have to pretend with me," he says, his voice almost begging for her to do something, anything.

But all he gets is more of what he thinks is denial, but what Alma knows is just confusion. She wonders if, perhaps, Hank should be the one in the grey uniform.

"What?" She asks.

"The voices. They aren't-"

But that's when Hank sees it. Really sees it. The blank, glazed over look in her eye that says that she believes this. That she believes that there is something wrong with her. She doesn't know anything about mutations or mutants. She doesn't even know herself. He sighs and rises to his feet, as he sees his fellow friends from Washington are doing. He makes contact with Senator Johnson across the way, who nods at him once that it's time to go. Digging in his pocket, Hank pulls out his business card and hands it to Alma, feeling more confused and disheartened than he did when they started this little conversation. f

"Never mind. Look, here's my card. Just in case you ever..."

He trails off, watching as she drinks in the details of the little business card with relish. Then, she looks up at him, waiting for him to finish the thought. Instead, she is rewarded to see him push his glasses up the bridge of his nose and nod his goodbyes, unsure of just how to finish this interaction that they've just had.

"Anyway, it was nice to meet you, Alma."

And Hank leaves feeling more foolish and uncertain than ever, enduring the entire ride home to the Xavier Estate with only one question in his mind. How can he wake Alma Williams up from whatever spell she's under?

* * *

When he arrives back at the mansion, he throws down his bag and his jacket on the floor with slobbish carelessness, calling up the stairs for his friend. He's been waiting for hours to get back here and have this conversation that will inevitably end in a fight between he and Charles, and now he's got to get this done. There's only one way to investigate and explore Alma Williams and Charles is it.

"Charles! Charles! Charles!" He calls, sweeping past rooms and shouting against the echoing wooden walls for his friend.

Half asleep and still in a robe, though it's almost five in the afternoon, Charles leans against the doorframe of his study and looks out at his friend, rubbing his tired, hazy eyes.

"Stop it with the racket! What do you want?" He groans.

After not seeing one another for weeks now, it might have been a happy reunion, but neither of the men are particularly up for pleasantries and reuniting joys at the moment. Hank simply looks Charles in the eye and says a single word. The one thing he knows Charles won't do, but the one thing that Hank needs him to do.

"Cerebro," he says.

Charles scoffs and looks at his friend reproachfully.

"What?" The telepath asks, incredulously.

Hank clarifies.

"I need you to use Cerebro and find a mutant for me."

The answer that comes out of Xavier's mouth is definite and harsh, the end of the conversation as he considers it. There is absolutely no discussion on using Cerebro. It will not happen. It cannot happen, no matter how much Hank might want it. Cerebro is out of the question.

"Absolutely not," he says, turning around to return to his room.

But Hank grabs him by the shoulder and turns him back so they are face-to-face. The older man sees a desperation in the younger man's eyes, but it is a desperation that he doesn't want to answer, doesn't want to acknowledge. He can't acknowledge it. Whatever has brought this on can bring them no good.

"You know I wouldn't ask if I didn't need this," Hank appeals, hoping that Charles will hear him out on this.

Even with no intention of giving in, the telepath raises an eyebrow, wanting to know how it came to pass that there was something that could cause such an emphatic response from his young friend.

"What do you want this for?" Charles asks, suspiciously.

"I met a woman today. Named Alma Williams. She's a patient at Holbrook Hospital-"

Everything stops for Charles as he hears that name. Holbrook. He looks at his friend, his voice and mind stuck in memories from what feel like a lifetime ago.

"Holbrook, did you say?" Charles manages.

Hank nods.

"Yeah. You know it?" He asks.

The telepath nods his head.

"Yes."

Somehow, Hank knows that there is more to his answer than that. But he does not push, does not pry for any sort of explanation from his mentor and friend. Charles always says that stories that need telling are given out in their own time. No one can rush them. So, Hank follows that adage now and stands in silence as he waits for the other man to say something. After a long moment of contemplation, Charles nods his head once.

"It will have to wait until tomorrow when I'm off the medication."

Anything, Hank thinks. He'll do anything to find out more about Alma.

"Done," he agrees readily.

But that isn't the only condition. Charles points a finger in his friend's face, forcing him to come to terms with the parameters of the deal.

"And I'll want a double dose as soon as I'm finished," he commands.

Anything, that is, except for put Charles in further danger. A double dose... That's... Dangerous.

"That isn't safe-" Hank protests.

But it is in vain. If Charles is going to go into Cerebro, he is returning there on his own terms, terms that will not be stopped by Hank's pathetic attempts at patient safety.

"Tomorrow morning, okay? Bright and early. I don't want to waste any time on this," Charles mutters to himself before retiring to his office, slamming the oaken door right in Hank's face.

* * *

And though Hank went to sleep the night before filled with the hope of answers, the next morning, when Charles wheels himself from the Cerebro chamber, the look in his face tells the younger mutant that that hope was all for nothing. He shakes his head as he approaches his friend. After almost an hour of searching and reaching out, there was nothing to be found near Holbrook Hospital, no matter how much it pains Charles to say so.

"I'm sorry, Hank. I don't see a mutant there," he says, genuine apology ringing in the air.

Hank sits with that information for a moment, rolling it around and examining its various edges and curves, looking for a loophole of some kind. He _knows_ that she must be a mutant. He knows. There is no way that she... it just... It isn't possible. Any other reality simply isn't possible.

"But what if she's repressed?" Hank suggests, grasping at straws.

Charles raises an eyebrow.

"What?"

Hank pulls even more desperately for an answer, looking in his mind for something that could resemble a logical line that could lead him to his most current conclusion.

"Like…. uh… Lie detector tests. You can fake your way through those, right?"

A nod of assent from the telepath in the wheelchair, not entirely buying what Hank is trying to sell.

"Theoretically, yes," he concedes, though his machine has been built to sweep its way around such things.

But Hank has allowed himself to be swept away by the idea of it all. Yes, if she has been convinced that her powers aren't real, then there surely must be a chance that she can duck under Cerebro's radar. There has to be a chance of that. If she's lived there since she was twelve, that's nine years they could have been brainwashing her. Years of lies and subterfuge to get her to refuse her extraordinary singleness. It would be so simple, really, to convince a mutant who was isolated that they were really and truly mad. After all, there is nothing so terrifying as powers that one doesn't understand. Yes, that must be it.

"What if her powers are so repressed that even she thinks they aren't real? Can she will herself out of Cerebro's reach?" Hank poses, the rhetorical questions sliding past him, more for his benefit than for Charles'.

The other man nods, attempting to cut in with little success.

"I suppose anything is possible, but-"

Charles is interrupted by Hank stumbling over his own understanding of things. It dawns on him that, if his hypothesis is true and she really doesn't believe that she's a mutant, then there must be something done. She cannot be allowed to stay there. Who knows what they're doing to her? Who knows how long it could take to make things right again?

"I have to go back there," he declares, nodding to himself once in affirmation.

Now, Charles will not be interrupted. This, this sort of intervention, is something on which he is an absolute authority.

"I don't think that is the best idea," Charles says.

Hank looks at his friend in shock. Of all people, Hank would have thought Charles would understand. Charles should understand just how much lost mutants need saving.

"Why not?" Hank demands.

Charles' eyes are an abyss of memories that are invisible to Hank. All he hears is the muttering of a man who is trying to keep him from saving someone else, an interpretation that will later cause him grief, but now only lights a fire under his skin.

"If you wrap yourself in her mind, you have to prepare yourself to take on the consequences, Hank. Are you prepared for that?" Charles asks.

Hank looks at his hands, then back to his friend. He can't leave her there. He can't leave her in a place where they have brainwashed and stolen her away. No mutant deserves that.

"Is there an alternative?" Hank retorts.

* * *

**Here we are! Chapter Three! Please, please, please leave a review! I love to hear from you guys. It means the world to me!**


	4. Chapter 4

The next afternoon, there are clouds in the sky. They hang low and oppressively over the countryside, dense as etched slate and so close that if there were no bars on her windows, Alma might have been tempted to reach her hand out and touch them. Radio reports are predicting a massive storm out in this part of the state, with high winds and unpredictable storm patterns, and the rolling winds that howl past the stone walls of Alma's room seem to indicate that the unpredictable storm is patterning its way toward Holbrook. That is how she ends up in her own room during her allotted free time this afternoon, when usually she would pack up her notebooks and pens and find a warm patch of sunlight in which to enjoy the simplicity of an hour of nothing but unrelenting peace, where there is no one to disturb her but the twittering of birds in the trees around her and the scratching of her pen as it flies across the yellowing pages of her notepad. Today, the incoming rain affords her no such luxury. Instead, she is inside her own four-walled, doorless bedroom, with no company of birds to keep her heart line in tune with the rest of the world. While any other day that might have caused her great distress or plunged her into the icy cold abysses of loneliness and isolation, today there is something else to occupy her mind, something else to hold her down to this world with reckless abandon.

For, when she woke up this morning, there was a man's business card on her bedside table. A handsome, well-educated man with the world at his fingertips, working for Congress on a bill that would most assuredly bring good to people who need it. Now, Alma isn't delusional. As a matter of fact, she's rather practical in her pursuits, whether they be mental, emotional or otherwise. For most of her life, she has known the sort of person that she is. A sick one. And though her experiences with love have been confined only to the novels she's devoured, the films she's locked away in her heart or the records she's never spent a day without, Alma knows that there is no man, much less one like Doctor Hank McCoy, could have any interest in her. It's just the way that she's been raised. Doctor Carrington has never steered her astray before, and in this matter he has always been definitive. No one could love her until she was healthy again; Carrington is the only one who has cared for her in the wake of her sickness, and for that she owes him her devotion.

She knows all of this, and yet when she is told that she will not be going outside today due to the impending weather, Alma's hands immediately reach for the record that's been on her mind since Hank left yesterday morning. Placing the needle where it belongs and turning the volume dial to its appropriate level, Alma lets the overture roll over her in dramatic, crashing waves until all she sees behind her eyes is the opera in her mind. As the story progresses, however, she cannot help herself but to sing along, her flighty soprano bearing no weight against the resounding voice of the woman on the record. The combination of song strikes the concrete walls of Alma's bedroom and she rises from her bed as the music fills her, commanding its rightful place in the alleyways of her heart. Eyes lighting up as if she were on some great London stage, her bare feet spin about her floor as she picks up the edges of her loose skirt with a wild, bohemian flare. The English translation has always been something that struck Alma in a place in the back of her mind that she could never quite pull out of a fog, and as she sings the voice of Carmen, along with the rusty echo of the record player, Alma runs over that translation in her head. _I'm not talking to you. I'm singing for my pleasure. I'm singing for my pleasure! And I'm thinking, and thinking is not against the law..._

"_Je ne te parle pas, je chante pour moi-même, je chante pour moi-même_! _Et je pense! il n'est pas défendu de penser_!" She croons, her eyes distant and wild, her movements sweet and budding; there is a vibration to her as though she's hanging over the precipice of something massively compelling that is waiting for her just beyond the horizon, if only she had the courage to leap off and pursue it.

It is in this state that Doctor Carrington finds her. Twirling quadrilles in a grey hospital-issued dress like it was made from miles of the finest silks in the deepest shades of crimson, Alma's enthused voice glides along the melody, her defiant eyes brushing the wall as though she were addressing an audience full of generous patrons. It's jarring and disconcerting, and with all that has gone on this morning, the Doctor cannot keep his face from contorting into a hot tempered grimace, nor can he keep his voice from shouting in a paternal rage:

"What is going on in here?"

Shame rises through Alma's body, boiling over under the white-hot fire of his verbal reproach. Her hands immediate fall from her skirt and the dancing stops, her face turns, caught like a child doing something naughty, toward the man in the doorless entryway to her room. Bones locking up against each other, she allows her body to shrivel under his narrow-eyed scrutiny. There are two orderlies standing at attention behind him, just out of the doorframe, but Alma doesn't pay them any attention. Instead, she attempts to play off what he has just witnessed her doing. That embarrassing execution of her fantasies, this bawdy love song that held the edges of her mind captive since Hank McCoy smiled at her yesterday, is a mortifying secret to share with anyone, much less her caregiver and psychopharmacologist. A fire of guilt rages through her, burning down her self-confidence as though it were an old nitrate film. Trying to control her breathing, which was made heavy by the singing and dancing she just allowed herself to be swept away by, she swallows the stone of sickness that threatens to rise up her throat.

"What?" She asks, her voice strained with the effort to seem like she's done nothing wrong even as the song continues to warble from the record player.

Raising his eyebrows in disappointment at the blatant evasion, Doctor Carrington forces himself to simmer down. He breathes in calm, counted breaths until he manages to return his body to its normal temperature and his heart rate back to its normal beats-per-minute. When he is certain that he will not unleash anymore reason for Alma to cower, he speaks, this time in a smooth, cordial voice, like a father coming over for tea.

"I asked what was going on in here," he repeats.

In the moments it has taken for him to bring himself back to Earth, Alma has subtly slid over to the bedside table that holds her record player, noisily sliding the needle off of the rotating disc without looking at it. The sound of the leading soprano's voice vanishes, leaving nothing between the patient and her doctor but the sound of the air conditioning unit.

"Nothing," she replies.

Another obvious lie. Finding himself a seat in the only available chair in the room, the doctor points out the obvious, opening his leather-bound notebook and uncapping his Mont Blanc pen, poising the latter above the former as if he expects there to be some sort of mental health development in the young woman singing about love, something he knows she's never felt for herself, not even once.

"You're singing," he states.

Bowing her head, knowing now that any resistance is poorly advised, Alma sits on the edge of her bed with a resigned sigh.

"Yes, Doctor Carrington. I was," she admits.

He begins to scribble down on the paper balanced in his lap.

"Any reason why?"

Alma thinks back to her schedule, wondering if perhaps she missed her appointment and if that is the reason that the Doctor has made such an unsuspected visit. But, she immediately counters, if she had an appointment, surely a nurse would have come to fetch her and walk her to his office. Alma's eyebrows narrow slightly.

"I'm sorry-Is this a session-?" She trails off, pointing to the paper he's currently jotting down notes upon.

Carrington leans back in the chair he's commandeered, raising a single eyebrow at her this time.

"Is that sass I hear in your tone?" He asks, levelly.

An answer rises to her lips immediately. When she was young, such a response would have come out of fear, fear of punishment, fear of neglect, fear of isolation. But now, such a programmed answer comes out of pure habit.

"No, sir," she says, shaking her head.

His grand tone rolling through the air, Carrington uses his hands to gesture as he attempts to make Alma feel small, something he has always had great success in.

"Hm. I see," he drones before continuing in a more brisk manner, "No, this isn't a session, but I _was_ asking a question of you, one that I expect answered sooner or later. You know, since I have known you almost your entire life and wanted to know why you're suddenly singing opera, something you haven't done since you were fifteen and saw your first Rock Hudson film, let's suppose I was merely asking out of curiosity."

The serrated edge to his tone rolls like thunder and a tingle of childish fear wracks Alma's spine.

"Was I disturbing anyone?" She asks, as it is always her first instinct that she has done something wrong, not, as Doctor Carrington seems keen to suggest, that anyone could have simply been genuinely interested in anything she has to say.

Her naive tone forces a chuckle from the throat of the man sitting in her chair. What a foolish girl.

"Can people in this building get any more disturbed than they already are?" He asks.

"Good point," she says.

Without another word or any indication of his purpose, the man rises to his feet, crossing over to the still-running record player, though it is soundless without the needle that Alma removed only a moment earlier. The young woman twitches, a neglected nightmare storming in the back of her mind that he might pick the record up and smash it to bits, destroying one of her beloved, few treasures. But, he doesn't do anything of the kind. He merely flips the rotating plate into the off position and picks the record up to inspect it.

"Carmen," he intones as his eyes roll across the center identification sleeve.

She watches him with terrified eyes, certain that any moment now his steady hands would crumble the plastic and take away her music.

"Yes, sir."

He smirks to himself, though she has no idea what such a gesture could mean.

"You must be in a good mood, then," he offers.

It isn't something she wants to discuss with him, but her answer is simple enough. The record finds its way back into its jacket and into its place with the rest of her meager collection of albums, and Alma breathes a sigh of relief that it seems essentially safe, at least for the moment.

"Yes, sir," she agrees.

With that issue of conversation out of the way, her caretaker returns to his seat and folds one leg over the other. Leaning back, he looks the picture of civility and relaxation.

"Well, you're probably wondering what I'm doing here," he drawls.

A tight smile crosses Alma's lips. If she hasn't disturbed anyone with her singing, then surely this entire endeavor from him has felt rather pointless.

"I wouldn't be disappointed if you explained," Alma responds.

The doctor examines her for a long while, taking his time as he goes. She's always been loyal to him, unceasingly so given that there are no other options available to her, and that is what makes this entire affair so disconcerting.

"Alma, do you think that you're treated poorly here?" He asks.

Her protest edges on violent as she speaks to defend herself.

"No, sir. Not at all," she says.

What reason would she have for thinking that she's been treated poorly? They have always taken care of her here, and their science has been working diligently to find a cure for the sickness that plagues her mind. Doctor Carrington stews, but sees no trace of a lie in her eyes.

"Have I ever given you reason to think that I'm not happy here?" Alma asks.

Carrington clucks his tongue.

"If you had asked me when I woke up for morning, I would have said no. But at this moment, I'm not so sure," he says.

The sound of that sends thrums of discord straight into the depths of Alma's stomach. Swallowing back any fear she might have, she shields herself from what feels like an attack.

"I just want to get better, sir. All I've ever wanted was to get better, and living here has-"

But she is cut off by a command that refuses any rebuttal.

"You're needed in the Administration building. In one of our holding rooms," he states.

The holding rooms are infamous in the hospital for one reason, and one reason only. They're where one gets sent when the Administration is reprimanding you. Alma's eyes widen and she strangles out:

"Why?"

"Because it appears you've been subpoenaed by the United States government," he responds.

The words of that sentence are all words that Alma understands on a technical level, but strung together in that order and under this context, she finds herself completely at odds to derive any sort of meaning from them.

"What?" She questions.

Standing and straightening his tie, the doctor thinks back to only moments ago, when Hank McCoy showed up and began to intimidate the office workers, using his status as politician to win him some bargaining power. Apparently, it worked, because one of the nurses scrambled up to Carrington and stammered out that there was a handsome, young man waiting in holding room A for Alma Williams, and that he was hear to _vet_ her about her treatment here. And while Carrington has no idea what McCoy needs from Alma, his suspicion is instantly riled. He immediately jumps to the entirely false conclusion that Alma has divulged the secrets of her treatment here to the young man who saw her only the day before. Carrington's struggle to maintain his composure in the face of this private meeting between a governmental agent and one of his patients- his most _important _patient- comes from a small man afraid that he has something to hide.

The reality is that he _does _have something to hide, but Alma would be the last person to divulge it, considering that she's never once in her life found her treatment to be anything out of the ordinary. Her blissful ignorance is just a small perk of spending the majority of her life in the custody of one man who, by the system laid out before them, cultivated perfect control over her entire life. All the same, in spite of these truths, Carrington still feels the suspicion that this meeting could blow his carefully constructed castle of cards to fall into a pile of nothing at his feet.

"You caught the attention of one of the politicians and now he wants to speak with you privately about how you're treated here," he snaps.

He continues to speak, but Alma stopped listening when he said holding room and politician. Holding rooms mean that she has done something wrong, and acting out of line can only result in punishment. Alma has lived here long enough to understand that the reality of punishment is one to be avoided at any and all costs. Panic begins to settle into her bones.

"What have I done wrong?" She asks, her breath picking up in wild pants.

Carrington waves in the two orderlies who have been waiting outside the door, and his eyes narrow.

"I'm not sure, but _you_ can be sure that you and I will have a discussion once you've been released."

Alma tries to make him understand, to make him _see _that she didn't do anything wrong. She doesn't deserve to be punished, she doesn't deserve to be in trouble. She didn't do anything wrong.

"I was only answering his questions," she protests.

Four bulky arms wrap their way around her like pythons, curling her into submission as her erratic hyperventilation leads to unsolicited sobs. Carrington does not look as they drag her out of the room like a dog dragging a toy in his teeth. He keeps his tone level and takes the liberty of having the final word in this conversation.

"And when you're finished answering his questions, then you'll answer mine."

* * *

But an hour before any of this happened, when Carrington was treating himself to an afternoon Scotch and Alma was just sliding the needle onto the first _Carmen _album in the three record set, there was a young man and there was a desk clerk. Hank McCoy idles up to the front reception area of the Hospital, having driven the morning through to get here. The secretary smiles at the man as he tips his head in respect to her.

"Good afternoon," he greets with a smile.

She reflects his attitude, all cordiality and deference.

"Oh, hello, Mister-?" She knows she's seen him before, and she searches for his name in her mind; he was here just yesterday, she curses herself, she should remember a man like this.

Hank wastes no time in correcting her. Today, when he walks into this building, he feels none of the same pleasures he felt when he walked in the day before. All is essentially as it was, but now the mere taste of the air makes him sick.

"It's Doctor. And McCoy. Doctor Hank McCoy," he says.

Feeling a bit embarrassed, the woman looks around her desk, wondering if anyone had alerted her to his arrival and if she had simply missed the notification.

"Of course," she nods, "Did you leave something behind yesterday?"

Hank merely shakes his head.

"Not at all. I'm actually here to vet a patient," he says definitively, leaving no room for argument.

That expression isn't one that is generally used outside of Washington, and Hank almost rolls his eyes at the thought that she might know what it means.

"Vet?" She asks, seeking clarification.

With little patience for banter, Hank replies in the simplest of terms, though it isn't quite an apt synonym.

"Examine," he explains away.

This seems to make sense to her and is spoken in a language she understands. She reaches for the collection of patient files on her desk, eager and willing to help facilitate whatever this young politician needs.

"Ah. Which patient is that?" She asks.

It spills over his lips.

"Alma Williams."

She doesn't need to reference a file or see this one's paperwork. Everyone knows Alma. The secretary shakes her head and tucks away the files she was pulling to deliver the news.

"She's in Ward Four. And they have restricted visitor access. You'll not be able to-"

Hank has never been accustomed to throwing his weight around. He isn't comfortable with intimidation or using the powers that he's been given to manipulate the situations he's thrust into, melding them into something more agreeable to his tastes. But in this moment, Hank turns to steel, his eyes piercing the woman as he does just what he's never wanted to before. He uses his position to gain an advantage. And the branch of government most directly addressing the people is not a bad card to have in a deck that is already stacked. Someone's life is at stake; Alma's wellbeing is a stake and that doesn't sit well with him.

"M'am, I am at the liberty of the United States Congress. I don't have _not able to_ in my job description," he bites out.

The woman swallows back her fear before standing and speaking in a tiny, timid voice that almost makes Hank pity her.

"Of course, sir. I'll contact her doctor."

* * *

Alma has been locked in holding room A for a few minutes now, and she hasn't been able to control the fear that's wracking her chest. She pounds on the door miserably, wondering if anyone will come to hear her in this rectangle of a room that look like the interrogation room out of any number of crooked cop films. The single light above her flickers, though whether that is a product of the storm raging around this building or of the terrible maintenance that this room endures, she isn't sure.

There is no longer blood running through her veins; her heart is pumping out pure terror. She thinks of what was said between her and the man the day before, what she possibly could have done to incur what Doctor Carrington assures her is the wrath of both the government and the hospital where she's spent nearly her whole life.

"What did I do?" She begs.

No reply. More tears form in her eyes.

"I'm sorry for whatever it was," she offers to no one.

Again, no reply. Alma sinks into one of the two metal chairs waiting on either side of the desk.

"I'm sorry," she blubbers.

She assumes that no one will answer her this time either. But, that assumption lands her in a state of shock when Hank McCoy appears, pushing himself through the door.

"Doctor McCoy-" She nearly shouts, standing to her feet out of respect, as Doctor Carrington always taught her.

He looks at her face, rubbed raw from fearful tears, and concern instantly etches itself across his features before he can stop himself.

"Are you alright?" He asks, tersely.

Alma stumbles to apologize, to make things right, to avoid whatever conflict will inevitably rise out of whatever wrong she has unknowingly committed.

"I'm so sorry for whatever I said that-" She begins.

But there is no time to finish that statement.

"Sit down, Alma," he nearly commands.

With the tension properly created between them, Hank crosses to the door of the grey concrete room and reaches out a single hand to lock the deadbolt. And with a sickening smack of metal against metal, Alma finds herself trapped with the young doctor about whom she was only just singing opera.

* * *

**Please, please review! I worked really hard on this chapter and getting the feeling of it just right, so I would love to hear what all of you think about it! Please give me some input! I can't wait to hear your thoughts!**


	5. Chapter 5

He sits across from her gracelessly, controlling his body with the air of a rigid drill sergeant. His face is composed into a tightly wound mask of composure, which has been in place from the moment he entered this hospital. Alma observes him with tentative force, attempting to understand that expression on his face.

"Doctor McCoy?"

His hand curls on the grey, metal table, and it occurs to Alma that he appears to be holding something at bay, fighting himself to keep something inside of him. What it is, she isn't quite sure, nor is she sure she'll ever understand, but she recognizes the look of someone battling with themselves.

"Hank. Call me Hank," he replies, his tone bound up inside his throat, coming out a little choked, a little restrained.

And though Hank looks like an animal pacing inside a cage, the terror in Alma's veins does not stop burning through her skin. In fact, whatever struggle he's enduring underneath his stone exterior is making him all the more intimidating. A reminder that he is strong enough to fight his own mind, so surely he'll have no qualms about going toe-to-toe with Doctor Carrington and Alma herself should he have half a mind to. This realization tosses the young woman into uncertain territory, as if she's attempting to skate across quicksand. Drawing in a breath, she attempts to make herself perfectly clear to the man she has so obviously offended, if only in an attempt to quiet the anger he seems intent on swallowing.

"Whatever I did, I want you to know that I'm sorry," Hank looks up at her then, his eyes sharp and undefinable all at once, and she renews her efforts, "I'm so sorry. I never meant to speak out against the hospital or Doctor Carrington, and if I did-"

Hank's tone softens as much as it can when he is so tightly wound, but Alma hears the change in tone all the same. That tiny difference speaks to Alma's boiling blood, bringing it down to simmer. And she breathes a little bit easier.

"You aren't in trouble," he assures her.

While she no longer fears _him_, she knows that Doctor Carrington is not here, does not feel the same things that Hank McCoy is feeling. After all, it isn't Hank's career that could be in jeopardy if the government came after him; it is Carrington's. She shakes her head and drags her gaze away from his.

"With all due respect, Hank," she says very carefully, as though she's afraid he'll revoke her right to say it as soon as it's come from her mouth, "you can't be sure of that."

Hank assesses her, looking at her hands in particular, which he is almost certain she has no idea are trembling recklessly. And he understands in that moment what must have happened. Carrington got spooked when he saw Hank coming into interview Alma, and so he tried to, in turn, frighten her into revoking any ill testimony that she might have slurred against him. What Carrington doesn't understand after nine years that Hank understands in less than twenty-four hours is that Alma would never say anything against the doctor, not even if her life depended on it. Not because what he has most assuredly done to her isn't awful, because Hank is certain that what he has been doing to her _must_ be awful. No. Alma wouldn't speak against him because she has been under his control for so long that she no longer _knows _what he has done to her is wrong.

"Why would you think you're in trouble?" He asks, though he knows the answer and knows, similarly, that he won't be given the real answer, no matter how wind-through-a-leaf shaking Alma is at this moment.

She mutters and Hank gets the distinct impression that she thinks she's out of her depth, talking about things she doesn't understand.

"I was told that I've been subpoenaed for what I said yesterday," she says.

It's amazing, Hank wants to remark, the effect that she has on him. No longer is his heart rolled up, coiled like spring. Now, he allows himself to smile, to bend his head and admit something to her that perhaps he shouldn't, saying it only to erase the terrified water still brimming her eyelids.

"I may have told a little lie," he says, only just louder than a whisper.

Alma speaks before she thinks, a little smirk coming up to her lips without her permission.

"That doesn't sound like you," she teases.

He gives her his full attention, leaning away from her to get a better look at her. The slight joke takes him off guard, as it is the first time he's seen her even flinch to let her hair down, to be anything but what she thinks is her sickness. It's the first time he's seen her feel that she deserves the right to make a quip like that one. He's almost proud of her; it's an amazing effect. But, while he feels nothing but a strange, sticky sweet feeling in the base of his stomach, she takes his silence to mean something else entirely.

"I'm sorry," she rushes to say, "My mouth runs away sometimes. It's one of my many flaws."

But Hank doesn't want her apology; on the contrary, he would be content to hear her make jokes like that for a long time to come.

"Don't apologize. You haven't done anything wrong," off of the doubtful look in her eyes, Hank speaks in what he hopes is a confirming tone, "_Really_."

Disbelief doesn't leave her, but she nods all the same.

"If you say so," she says, hesitating slightly before continuing in a confused manner, "But if I didn't-"

Hank sighs, knowing that he will have to be honest. She isn't compelled to answer any of his questions by law, and if she should want to leave this room at any time, she's free to do so. It would, of course, be easier to have her believe that she must answer his questions, but…All of the answers in the world aren't worth it to Hank if she's as miserable and afraid as she was when he walked into the room.

"You aren't legally bound to answer any of my questions. This is just for my own research purposes as we begin to draw up the bill."

Now, that last part isn't true, but Hank doesn't want her to know the real reason. Not yet. Adjusting himself in his chair, Hank takes the cap off of his pen and places it to the yellow, lined paper of his notebook. Alma watches his movements with interest.

"So, I didn't say anything wrong yesterday?" She asks, suspicious.

"No," is his simple response.

Then, Alma almost whispers something that finally makes him understand why the twitchy look in her eye never quite left her, even as her fear of him seemed to vanish. He's just about to ask her his first question, but she beats him to it with a question of her own.

"Would you mind saying that closer into the microphone?" Alma asks, her voice quiet as she leans back in her chair.

"What do you mean?" He asks, balking.

Alma has only been in this room less than a handful of times, but after being in a single complex for one's entire life, one learns certain tricks and secrets. They would love to have both her and Hank believe that this conversation is just between the pair of them, but Alma knows better. She points underneath the table, to the underside where she knows an audio monitoring device is welded to the metal of the furniture. She can't see it, but she knows that the machine's little red light is on, signaling the secrets of this room. Hank can hear what she says next, but only barely. It's obviously something she doesn't want whomever is listening to know that she knows.

"The room's bugged. Would you mind saying it so they can hear you?" She asks, before her eyes turn painfully vulnerable, so wide and open and _honest _that it makes Hank want to leave the room and hide, "It might… be useful to me later," she finishes.

In the back of his mind, Hank wants to question her, to ask why she is so afraid of Carrington. But, he also knows that he isn't ready for the answer to that question; even if she were ready to give it, he would not be ready to hear it. So, he simply leans in, closer to the table, and says in a clear voice:

"No. You aren't in trouble."

Alma smiles then, warm and grateful, all traces of fear wiping clear from her eyes. The weight of her thanks pulls Hank's mind down with its weight, but it's a weight he gladly accepts in this moment.

"So… What did you want to ask?" She asks, brightening by the second.

Now, here comes the part that Hank all at once craves and dreads. The moment he gets his answers.

"Just a little bit about your treatment. Just in broad strokes, what it's been like. You were very complimentary yesterday, so…" He sees her, staring at him expectantly, and suddenly loses his train of thought, caught up too steadily in her eyes. He coughs, trying to dispel that odd emotion rising up in his chest as she shows him nothing but trust, "Explain that."

When he envisioned this moment, he anticipated her immediately throwing herself into story after story about her upbringing in the hospital and the life that she's had and the treatments that she's been given. He expects that she will give him every answer that she's able to, opening her secrets up to him like a door opens for a concierge. But, that isn't what happens at all. Instead, Alma sits in silence, wracking her brain, until Hank clears his throat encouragingly. She shrugs at the gentle nudging, and looks at her hands.

"I'm not sure where to start," she confesses.

Which isn't untrue, not entirely, at least. She is unsure of where she should start, because this is her whole life. How does one concisely knit up their entire life into a nice package for a near-complete stranger who may or may not hold the entirety of said life in his hands? He works for the government, she knows, and should he not like what she says, then he could get the hospital shut down, and Alma could not abide such a thing, not when Doctor Carrington tells her that they are so close to finding a cure.

"At the beginning."

In truth, Carrington hasn't even been working on a cure. So every effort she takes to carefully chose her words is said for nothing. She's only guaranteeing herself more time within these walls, more time for her to unknowingly sit inside a cage. The story of her life comes easily past her lips with no hesitation, no remorse or disappointment. Just facts. Just realities. The off-handed and almost hopeful delivery makes Hank's stomach turn to jelly.

"I was sent here when I was twelve by my parents who weren't sure what to do with me. We were from a very rural part of the country and no one ever quite understood me or how to…" She searches for a way to explain what she means, thinking of the town doctor with whom she spent a week as he tried desperately to cure her with everything from denying her water to eating nothing but peas for an entire twenty-four hours, "You know, take care of someone as sick as me. I assume they wanted to protect me from people who would do bad things to try and treat me. I read a book about how sometimes they use snake bites and exorcisms to save people from what I've got."

After she read that book, she didn't sleep for days. The revelation disturbed her deeply, and reminded her just how grateful she was for her treatment. No matter how lonely and terrifying those first few weeks in the hospital were, at least she wasn't being poisoned for the sake of some sort of phony science, she thought to herself.

Her body might not be poisoned for science, Hank thinks, but her mind most certainly has been.

"And what is it that they say is wrong with you?" Hank asks.

They told him the answer, but he asks anyway, just to hear her say it in that terrifying, bone-shaking calm that she speaks everything else with.

"I hear voices in my head," she responds.

They officially refer to it as _auditory hallucinations_, and much in the same way that some people claim to see people who aren't there, or imagine that they are places that they very clearly aren't, the health care professionals charged with her welfare say that she imagines people talking in her mind as though they were actual people she could talk to, a diagnosis solidified by interactions like the one Hank and Alma shared only the day before, when she answered his question as though it were a person in her mind to converse with. But, she answers the question as she does because she doesn't want to bore the man with the nitty-gritty of her condition, so _I hear voices in my head_ is the answer Hank receives.

"Do you hear them now?"

Alma laughs at him. Actually laughs as though his question were the most absurd thing she could have been asked. She couldn't very well have this conversation with him if she were hearing a host of conversations in her mind, now could she? The laughter that peels from between her lips feels almost real, and Hank isn't sure how he feels about a question so inane being so hilarious to her.

"Oh, no. Don't be silly. They give me medication for that. I get an injection three times a day to help combat my symptoms."

"So you don't hear them at all?" Hank asks.

She shakes her head, searching for an acceptable comparison.

"It's like radio static. Just sort of fuzzy in the back of my mind," she says, vaguely motioning at the free air behind the nape of her neck.

Hank makes a note about that, in the chicken-scratch notation of a true doctor, and no matter how Alma squints at it, she cannot quite make out what it reads.

"I see. And what about your parents?"

Alma recoils at the implication of such a question, that they are bad or wrong for admitting her here, when she knows that they were only looking out for her, only keeping her best interest as heart.

"What about them?" She asks.

Hank shrugs, as if the meaning to his query should be obvious. She said she was from the midwest, and that isn't exactly an inexpensive trip to make, even if it is only every once in a while. However, if he had someone like Alma and she was stuck in a hospital for twelve years, he would do everything he could to be there. He would move down the street if he could and visit her every day. If the roles were reversed, that is. If he were ever to have someone like Alma.

"Do you see them?" He asks.

"No. I get letters every once in a while, but never visits," Alma chuckles to herself, her own private joke, "I mean, this isn't exactly the kind of place where people want to spend Christmas."

And then, smiling, Hank is saying something without thinking it through. Sincere words just fly straight from his chest out into the world, unbidden if not unwelcome, and they leave a blazing trail of goosebumps down Alma's spine.

"I don't know. I think that if you are here, it's bearable," he says, his voice endearing even as he wonders what on Earth possessed him to say that out loud.

The air thickens like cream into butter, and Alma struggles to breathe as she looks past his glasses and into his hesitant eyes.

"Uh- What else… What else do you want to know?" She asks, attempting to return the air back to her lungs, pulling her gaze from his so she can think straight once more.

Cursing himself, Hank scribbles nonsense words idly on his pad as he collects himself.

"These voices that you hear, do they ever talk to you directly?" He asks.

"What do you mean?"

He stretches, reaching for meaning.

"Do they ever try and convince to do things or-?" Hanks trails off.

On a few occasions, she can recall them whispering to her from the inside walls of the hospital, telling her to crawl on her belly like a snake or to crow like a bird in the dead of night. Alma never followed through with the demands of the voices, but the undoubtedly sinister intent of such commands spooked her into more than submission before Carrington's medical prowess. And every evening, when she says her prayers, she remembers such moments, and reminds herself that she will never return to such a state of illness. No matter what Carrington demands of her, she will do anything to keep from the feelings she had those nights when the voices spoke directly to her, calling out her name and demanding that she play puppet to their puppet master.

"When I was younger. Not anymore," she says.

Hank sees straight through that simple defense. If Carrington were smart, which he is, Hank knows that he could have projected thoughts into Alma's mind to make her believe she was _sick_. So, in order to win her obedience, Carrington must have shoved dangerous thoughts into her mind, thinking straight to her in order to scare her. Again, he fights his body for control as anger rises up in him like the sea at high tide, thinking of all the manipulation that Alma has endured at the hand of this man parading around as a mental healthcare _expert_.

"Who first told you that you were sick?" He questions.

Alma rolls her eyes, a move that would have gotten her a sharp rebuke from Carrington were he around (_"It's just not ladylike, Alma.")_

"No one had to tell me. I was young, but I was smart enough to know that no one else heard what I heard. I knew I wasn't sane," Alma responds.

Speaking before he thinks again, Hank asks:

"What if you were sane?"

That isn't a question she's ever been asked before, though it's one she's thought of often in those quiet hours in her room as she's drifting off to sleep.

"What do you mean?" She asks, surprised to speak aloud the question that she has only permitted herself to think in silence.

The tension in the room hums as Hank lowers his voice.

"What do you think you'd be like if you didn't hear them?" he asks.

What would she be like? She would be anything and everything that she can't be inside these walls. But, afraid of bringing any more gravity to this heavy conversation, Alma bites her tongue and smirks.

"I wouldn't have as many headaches," she jokes.

But Hank isn't satisfied with that answer. He folds his arms across his chest and waits for her to struggle through an answer that actually _means_ something.

"Everything would be different," she finally says, "But I am what I am, and that's all that I should consider. No use in making myself miserable, is there?"

It's what she has been told every day since she arrived here, and it has made the wait for the cure all that more bearable, as far as she's concerned. This is the life she is living, and until the day when she is better, she will have to let the choices of life be made for her. Hope is always present in her heart, which keeps her from losing any ground.

"And besides," she says, that whisper of a promise on her voice, "I'm going to get out someday. When Doctor Carrington cures me, he's going to let me go."

It is in that moment that Hank is almost certain he is going to be sick. She has been manipulated and lied to until the world isn't a reality anymore, but rather is a construction of someone else's design. And Hank can't bear to watch it for a moment longer. Rising to his feet, he runs a hand through his hair and collects his things, sliding them into the briefcase he brought to complete the official look he was aiming for when he left the mansion this morning.

"Well, this has all been…Very helpful, Alma. Thank you for your time," he says, politely.

Once again, Alma watches him struggle with something behind his carefully composed exterior. Something unreadable, but a struggle nonetheless. If she could see inside his mind, she would witness him struggling to keep the Beast at bay as he fights back the emotions rising up within him.

"I'll be honest, Hank," she says, a sad sort of smile on her lips, "In here, I've got nothing but time."

"Well, then, you should expect me back around soon."

Unbridled excitement shines in her eyes.

"Really?" She asks.

How could he say no to someone so happy to see him?

"Yeah. I will," he promises.

A little awkwardly, a little unsure, Alma reaches out her hand to him.

"Well, I'll see you then," she says.

His hand touches hers.

"Nice to meet you," She says.

They shake hands and lock eyes.

"Nice to meet you," Hank responds.

And they stay there for a long moment as Hank searches her face for riddles his mind is posing in endless, dizzying, run-on sentences.

"You should probably go now," Alma finally whispers.

As if he wasn't aware of his awkward staring, Hank releases her hand and blushes around his collar.

"Right," he says, smiling, "Yes. I should."

As he walks from the room, the decision has been made. He has to save her. And, as he goes, no one witnesses him slip a vial of the daily injection she's given into his pocket with the grace of a magician.

* * *

**Here we go! I love hearing from you guys, and thank you for all of the lovely reviews! I cannot wait to hear your thoughts on this chapter! Please review!**


	6. Chapter 6

Hank is on the telephone with a United States Senator and is only giving the man approximately less than a quarter of his attention, something that is highly unusual. After all, Hank is dedicated to his work on Capitol Hill and the advancement of the Mutant cause, so anything less than one hundred percent of his undivided attention seems less than such a weighty topic deserves. At this moment, though, Hank is using the better part of his brain power to focus on an ever-twisting labyrinth that is the medication he single-handedly swiped from Holbrook yesterday afternoon. Phone lodged between his ear and his shoulder, Hank uses his free hands to analyze and scrape through the nearly indecipherable nuances in the structure of this vastly complicated medication he has focused under his microscope. Out of the corner of his interest, Hank realizes that there has been a slight pause in the Senator's generally unfaltering speech, so Hank catches himself prompting the old man to continue absent-mindedly.

"Uh-huh," Hank says, hoping to sound enthusiastic and noncommittal at the same time.

Apparently, this is enough to sate the old statesman, as he continues on with a grand and impressioned cadence to his voice, as though he's conducting a John Philip Sousa march instead of relaying information to a lobbyist. A lobbyist who, for all of his time spent in Washington crusading for the rights of his mutant brothers and sisters, has cast his core foundation aside for the time being to unravel the dizzying puzzle that is whatever this clear liquid is that they're using to kill Alma's powers. Hank frowns behind his glasses as he tries to decipher the complex codes written in the molecules of this solution, and the Senator continues on.

"And I think that if we really push hard once we return from recess," the man says, taking a swig of Bourbon before speaking again, "we'll be able to try and make something happen for you and your cause."

Now, that is something that could break through even the most deep and profound of Hank's mental check-outs. The two words guaranteed to grab his attention and his undivided will is _Your_ and _Cause_. On the lips of a senator, they don't mean much, promises are like salt in hot water, dissolvable and choking, but it's the first of any such salty promise that Hank has gotten since starting his work on Capitol Hill, so he instantly pulls his mind away from the sample of medication and feels the beginnings of a headache coming on strong.

"Really?" He bleats out, almost unable to believe it.

Strike that. Hank is _completely_ unable to believe it. After months and months of hard work and barely anything to show for it but a few dinners at fancy hotel restaurants overlooking the Potomac and hours and hours of paperwork, Hank thinks that perhaps he has become quietly convinced, and heavily in denial of the fact that the Senators with whom he worked were just screwing around with him, working him to the bone until he got humiliated enough to drop the matter of lobbying for the right to live his own life. This turn of events sends a thrill through Hank's core and a guilty tug to the back of his mind as his eyes catch the sample he's currently examining. His guilt belongs to everyone and everything at once, a heavy stone tied around his neck with the truth inscribed upon it: _Hank McCoy cannot save everyone_, it bitterly reminds him.

"Why, yes. I do. A rider on one of these Civil Rights Bills," Senator Johnson says, a bold declaration for something so monumental.

Hank runs a hand through his hair and sits upright, breathing a sigh of disbelief. This changes things. A rider on a bill could be everything, or it could be nothing. It could be cut once the bill leaves committee, or it could go all the way to the President's desk. Either way, it will take a lot of shoe leather and room working on Hank's part to get anything done. Many late afternoon lunches and lobbying sessions, strategy meetings and early mornings. The thought of such a prospect quickens Hank's pulse and fills him with dread all at once. Once they get back from the recent Congressional recess, he won't have much time at all to spend on the Alma situation. Which means he will have to work fast and actually come to some sort of decision on how to save her, because right now, he's just been reaching out blindly in the dark.

"Wow, Senator, that's-" Hank begins, gratitude filling his tone in spite of the uncertainty looming on the horizons of his mind.

A scoff from the other end of the telephone line as the man brushes off whatever it is that Hank is about to finish saying.

"Don't get emotional," Johnson says.

This wasn't a play to garner sympathy or emotion from the young man. It was a play to get his loyalty. Congressional recess can be murder on a lobbyist's loyalty, and Johnson wants to ensure that he keeps Hank on a tight leash, whether Hank knows it or not.

"Right. Sorry," The young man apologizes, unable to comprehend, even this long into his tenure in DC, the mood swings of those in power.

"Goodnight, Hank. We'll talk again soon."

Hank nods to no one, his head swimming.

"Thank you, Senator."

But before he can even get the words out, the other man hangs up, leaving Hank with no one to speak to but the dial tone.

* * *

For the rest of the afternoon, Hank hunkers down over the sample he stole from the hospital, running it through centrifuge after centrifuge, test after test, until he's fairly confident that he's beginning to understand both its most basic functions and intricate complexities. He's slumped down in a chair, waiting for a read-out to print from the massive machine in the corner of the lab, his eyes drooping with the effort to keep them open, when a voice breaks his hazy concentration.

"Hank!"

It's Charles, of course, the only voice in the mansion these days. He's walking, thanks to the dose of Hank's serum, which he injected only a few hours ago. Hank looks up from his trained gaze straight ahead, turning his face toward the door with little interest.

"Yeah?" He calls.

Charles really wanted to ask Hank how he plans on spending the summer recess, how the younger man plans on waiting out his time until the leeches of Washington come back out of the shadows for another romp about town, but he's stopped short when he sees the tests running and the machines printing and the centrifuges spinning. He shoots Hank a quizzical look.

"What're you doing?" Charles asks.

The young doctor rises to his feet, pointing at the currently rotating vial in the middle of the whirling device on his desktop. Too fast to detect what's inside, Charles immediately thinks the worst, thinking of the few things that Hank has told him about the young woman in Holbrook. His stomach drops.

"Looking at a sample," Hank says.

Charles gulps, and tilts his head reproachingly, hoping on hope that Hank will not prove his worst fears true.

"You didn't take that young girl's blood, did you?" Charles accuses, unabashedly asserting that Hank would have done something as ridiculous as force the girl to give up her blood for his own personal studies.

Humid, stifling offense fills up Hank's lungs and he turns on his friend with incredulous eyes. Of all of the dirty, underhanded things he could have accused of, this isn't one that Hank has even remotely considered, much less would dare to attempt.

"Of course not, Charles. What do you take me for?" He snaps back, disgusted at even the mere, slightest suggestion of something so debased.

The older man merely raises an eyebrow and shrugs, staring down at the papers amassing on the floor from the printer attached to the nearest machine.

"Lately? I'm not so sure," Charles mutters, pulling his spectacles from his pocket and sliding them up the bridge of his nose.

He bends down and begins thumbing through the prints, narrowing his eyes to focus in on the tiny print and the even small graphs and readings running rampant across the page. Some of it, he understands, but for the most part, he feels a step and a half out of his depth, and looks to Hank for a life preserver. Taking the hint, Hank shoves his hands into his pockets and looks away bashfully.

"It's the medication they give her," Hank says, "I'm trying to understand what it does."

Because when he swiped it from the sterile medical table outside of their meeting, he knew on a cognitive level what it did. It dulls her powers to a quiet whisper in the back of her mind, turns the volume down just enough so that she can feel like this mockery of medical science is actually doing something productive for her, when really it isn't making any progress with her mind at all, considering that there isn't truly anything wrong with her. You can't cure an illness that isn't there. Charles frowns down at the stacks of paper in his arms.

"And what _does_ it do?" He asks.

That's the most fascinating part of all of this. _That's _what is so spectacularly terrible about this entire debacle. It isn't a medication pointed at anything at all. It doesn't search for the mutant gene, doesn't target the mutant element and it doesn't attack her mutation at all. It's just a mixture of generic drugs, a cocktail of medications that should _never _be put in the same test tube, much less pumped into someone's veins three times a day. This injection doesn't attack the mutation. It attacks the entire brain, the entirety of Alma's being.

"It's a combination of drugs that would kill a non-mutant. It doesn't target the mutation itself...It just slows her brain function enough to dull her powers," Hank explains in laymen's terms, not bothering to get into the nitty-gritty and complexities of such a terrible display of medical prowess.

Charles furrows his brow.

"Like declawing a tiger?" He clarifies, looking up at his friend for confirmation.

A shake of the head and a wave of his hand, and Hank tweaks the thinking behind that.

"Not exactly. Like convincing a tiger that it doesn't have claws," Hank says, simplifying the truth.

Silence hovers over them like a grey cloud over a picnic and the pair collectively hold their breath at that revelation. For a moment, Charles is convinced that he will be sick, that the sludge sliding through his veins will be enough to turn his stomach against him. But, eventually, he recovers, dropping the read-outs from his hands onto the nearest desk.

"What are you going to do with this information?" Charles finally asks, his expression unreadable, but his hesitance speaking volumes for him.

This question confuses Hank.

"What do you mean?" He responds.

There is a struggle, an internal debate, occurring in the mind of the Xavier man, and he swallows hard before asking the question that follows. Truly, he doesn't want to seem condescending and rude, but in the moment, it happens regardless of how hard he wishes he could be anything other than those two things.

"Have you thought this through at all?" Charles reproaches.

Hank's response is as untrue as it is prideful and commanding, a defense when he knows he has no leg to stand on.

"Yeah," he says, turning his face from his friend and mentor before flipping the centrifuge off and unplugging it from the nearest wall.

Another seemingly endless road of silence stretches out between them like two points on opposite ends of a map. When Charles forces himself to speak at last, he tuts the words out from between his teeth, careful not to sound like the hardened old man that he feels he might be inside.

"Be very careful about how you choose to proceed, Hank," he cautions, his voice curiously sad sounding to Hank's ears.

The mere notion that Hank doesn't know what he is doing straightens the hair on the back of the young man's neck, and he mutters back a command that surely isn't meant to be followed. It isn't the way of men to keep quiet on things they don't have any business speaking about.

"Please don't warn me about things you don't understand," Hank implores, his eyes open and his heart clear.

Charles' answer is thoughtless.

"Have you ever considered that perhaps I do understand?"

Hank's retort is even less thoughtful.

"Losing your legs doesn't make you an expert on everything," Hank snaps uncharacteristically.

The sound of the pain that reverberates in Charles' chest fills the room with silent cacophonies, striking the walls and echoing back until Hank has no choice but to listen back to the cruelty of such a statement. Upon immediate reflection, he stammers out an apology, his face turning red from the top of his hairline down past the collar of his shirt, unsure of where such an anguished treatment of his friend could have come from.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that," he says, earnestly.

Charles nods his forgiveness, but his eyes grow distant, his attachment to this situation growing stronger and more detached at the same time. He's lost in a memory somewhere, Hank knows, but doesn't prod for more information.

"Just be careful," Charles says, his voice little more than a whisper, "People are fragile. Much more fragile than we realize."

Hank gulps back a wave of pride and tilts his head in assent.

"I know that," he says.

Patting his young friend on the shoulder before moving to take his leave, Charles gives his friend one last piece of advice, one that he hopes will lighten the mood and also be taken seriously.

"And get some sleep. You look more tired than I do, and that's saying something."

* * *

The patients of Holbrook have long since gone to bed, kept on a tightly regimented schedule that is not to be disturbed or tampered with, but there is still an eery blue light glowing from the recreation room all the same, a rippling light that denotes the use of the television set long past the hour to retire. But Doctor Carrington isn't concerned; he knows that Nurse McKerry was on duty this evening, and the woman always did have a soft spot for the young patient currently sitting on the stained carpet of the recreation room, her face less than a foot away from the television screen. Surely the Nurse allowed Alma to talk her into letting the patient stay up past curfew for some film or another. It has happened before and no matter how many stern talking to's and formal reprimands the nurse has been given, she continues to let the young woman have a few evenings of youthful rebellion. It's good for her, McKerry argues, and Carrington has never had the heart to wrench the girl from her small, living room revolutions. So, this evening, when he enters the recreation room, he finds her in much the same position he has seen her in before. The grey dress wears her like oversized pajamas, and she sits as close to humanly possible to the aging television set, as if she hopes that Cary Grant will reach out his hand to her and pull her into the middle of the scene. The Doctor watches in silence as the music swells and the black and white film reaches a dramatic crescendo, his eyes vaguely amused by how entranced Alma seems to be by the whole play.

"And what are we watching this evening?" Carrington asks, clearing his throat to make his presence known.

Alma spins around for a moment, looking up at the intruder to her private moments alone with Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman. When she discovers it's only Doctor Carrington, she waves him over, keeping her voice no louder than the hum of a whisper so as not to disturb the action going on within flickering the screen.

"Oh, this is a good one, Doctor," Alma whispers, a bewitched smile on her face, "A classic. _Notorious."_

It's one of Alma's favorites, but Carrington knows that. Just as he knows everything else. He raises an eyebrow and struts over toward her, not reprimanding her for sitting too close to the television. The film is vaguely familiar to him.

"Hitchcock?" He asks.

Alma nods, refusing to take her eyes off of the screen now that Bergman and Grant are so close together.

"Yes, sir," she confirms.

"What's it about?" He asks.

It's about spying and intrigue and alcoholism and romance, but above all, Alma can sum it up in a single word.

"Trust, I think," she replies.

They watch for a few moments longer, as Bergman and Grant inch closer and painfully closer still, their lips almost hovering against one another as the orchestral accompaniment of this scene hushes into the background.

"You did well with that lobbyist the other day," Carrington compliments, knowing that Alma will need some sort of reward for all of the terror he put her through that day. A little bit of scare tactics never led him astray, and certainly worked, as far as he is concerned, when it came to Alma's answers on the matters of her treatment here.

"Did I?" She asks.

It isn't often that Alma is complimented, so the feeling of pride wells in her chest. Carrington merely tuts.

"Don't fish, Alma. It isn't ladylike," He scolds.

Alma merely nods, her heart pacing as she watches the film continue to play out in front of her. And when Carrington knows that he has lost her to the romance of the moment, he pats her lightly on top of her head and takes his leave.

"I'll send Nurse McKerry in here to fetch you shortly," he calls behind him.

Unable to conjure up a response, Alma inches even closer to the flat faces of the characters on their screen. Bergman clings to Grant's form, holding him tightly without the intent of ever letting go. After the times she's seen this film, Alma cannot help but allow her lips to move in time with the characters, her heart positively thrilled, even now, by the prospect of their love.

"_Don't leave me," _Bergman implores.

"_You'll never get rid of me again," _Grant replies.

"_Oh_," Alma mouths, her wide, wet eyes looking up at the screen as Cary Grant listens intently to the words she's mouthing along with Ingrid Bergman, "_Never tried to_."

And for a brief, unbidden moment as the music swells in her ears like inescapable waves crashing against the shores and Cary Grant leans down to kiss Ingrid Bergman with true movie house passion, Alma thinks of Hank McCoy.

* * *

**Hello, my friends! i am so sorry this update is so late! I've been dealing with some health stuff and going back to school next week, so I haven't had the time to update this story! I just wanted to say how much I'm enjoying y'alls review! It means so much to me to hear from you guys and I hope to hear from all of you again! :D**


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